The first day she came to work her brown cheeks were rouged, her dark
eyes were sparkling, her lips were cherry red. Her black hair was
caught back by a white ribbon, and she wore a white peasant blouse,
which drooped at the shoulders and had a low neckline.
I accompanied her through the first two cabins, advising and
observing--and smoothing an occasional sheet. Veda went about her work
willingly and efficiently, and after a while I strolled back into the
house.
I picked up my copy of "War and Peace" which I had borrowed from the
library on four different occasions, without yet having had a chance to
read it. This time I was up to page fourteen.
I was so accustomed to frequent interruptions that I was becoming
unable to concentrate even in their absence. Donna had gone outside her
window and was playing; David was in school, and Grant was
gone--talking, no doubt, with some motel owner he had found who was
willing to listen to him for a while. In the unusual silence I felt my
mind drifting away from Tolstoy's closely packed pages.
The wheels of a car churned the gravel, and paused while the driver got
out and dropped the key into the mailbox. I got up and stood by the
window, watching wistfully as the car merged with the traffic on the
highway. Every morning cars pulled out, full of people on their way to
excitement and joy. Well, maybe they were just on their way back to
dull jobs or nagging mates, but anyway, the whole process had the tang
of romance and adventure. I always felt a little prick of envy,
watching a car leave--a prick heightened, no doubt, by the rarity of
our opportunities to leave the motel.
It was a beautiful morning, clear and sunny--the kind of weather that
made people stream to the beaches, avoiding the desert and Palm Springs
and the Moonrise Motel. Long stretches of good weather, coming in the
Spring when there could just as well be lots of bad weather, are
disastrous for business. Desert motel owners are among the very few
people in business, besides umbrella manufacturers and salesmen of
anti-freeze mixtures, who consider good weather a tragedy.
Still standing at the window, I glanced around at the different
garages. Across the driveway, there were still cars in 16 and 14; and
at the end furthest from the highway, there were cars in front of two
of the singles--9 and 7. Two salesmen, I recalled, had rented those
cabins.
As I stood there, Veda came out of 11 with her bucket, her mop, and her
basket. She headed for cabin 9. I started toward the door, although I
knew there wouldn't be time to warn her of the obvious fact that that
cabin was still occupied; but by the time I got to the door, she was
talking to the salesman.
After a moment she went inside cabin 9, leaving her cleaning equipment
outside.
I closed the door slowly, deep in thought. Could it be he just wanted
her to remove his used towels, or do some minor cleaning job? Or help
him pack his suitcase? Or--?
Half an hour later the salesman came in and tossed number 9 key on the
desk.
"I'll remember this here place," he said, winking broadly. "This here
is what I call deluxe accommodations."
I watched out the window again. Veda was cleaning cabin 8. When I
thought she must be about through, I strolled out in that direction. In
a few minutes she came swinging out of the cabin, tossed her basket
down beside her bucket, and raised her hand to knock on the door of
cabin 7.
"Just a minute," I said. "There's still someone in that cabin."
"I know there is; a man," she said, speaking with that peculiar upswing
at the end of her words that is characteristic of many Mexicans. "I
just thought I'd see if he ain't about ready to leave."
"Mm. And if he 'ain't' about ready--?"
She tossed her head. "Well, there ain't any law against a girl picking
up a little extra money."
There was no law, either, against motel owners' cleaning up their own
cabins, so for the rest of the week Grant and I went back to the old
routine of mopping, dusting, stripping beds, and making them. Mrs.
Clark's dark skin was a little pale when she reported for work the
following Monday morning, but to us she looked positively beautiful.
Meetings of the Hotel and Motel Owners' Association of Banning took
place every other week. The organization had accomplished a lot before
it had been in existence long, erecting signs at strategic points along
the highways, advertising in magazines and newspapers, and in general
calling the attention of the public to Banning as a health resort,
vacation spot, and a pleasant place to interrupt a trip for a night's
pause. Grant and I attended most of the meetings together, leaving Mrs.
Clark in charge of the motel and the children. One meeting night,
though, when Mrs. Clark was expecting company and didn't want to leave
home, I drove alone to the meeting. It was held this night at the Linda
Vista Motel; and after the meeting had been opened and I had read the
minutes of the previous meeting, I looked over the assembled group
while a committee member made a rambling and boring report upon a
related meeting he had attended. Mr. Featherbren, his tall form draped
over a straight chair, caught my eye and winked at me. After a bad
start and a few misunderstandings, we were now the best of friends.
I was surprised to see Mrs. Bradley huddled snugly in one of the chairs
in front of the table at which Mr. Cruz, the president, and I sat. She
had never appeared at any of the meetings; in fact, I had never seen
her since the night of the first meeting, when she showed me the egg
she said she was planning to hatch.
I learned later that when Mr. Renault of the Mountain Lodge Motel had
stopped in, a little earlier than planned, at the Auto Haven to pick up
Mr. Bradley, Mrs. Bradley, announcing that her husband was out of town
and that she was going to the meeting in his stead, hopped into the
car. Actually, though, her husband was taking a shower, and she had
seized the opportunity to leave him home while she went to the meeting.
I didn't realize at the time how it happened that she was at the
meeting, but I did know that she shouldn't be. As far as I knew, I was
the only one present who knew of her eccentricity, and the fact made me
feel an obligation to keep anyone else from detecting anything unusual
about her.
The wizened, wrinkled little creature was almost buried in layer after
layer of clothing that might have first been worn by Noah's wife. A
black cloth over the top of her tiny head served as a hat, and her
small eyes sparkled brightly as she glanced from me to Mr. Cruz to the
speaker, and back to me again.
"Come on over here beside me, come on over!" she hissed, catching my
eye and motioning toward the vacant chair on one side of her. The chair
she was sitting in was at least ten feet from the table where I sat,
and her stage whisper was clearly audible to everyone above the
long-winded, dull report that was being given.
I shook my head reprovingly at her, frowned, and feigned an intense
interest in the speaker. To my horror, I heard the old lady cackling
with amusement. I was relieved when she turned her attention from me,
but my relief lasted only for a moment. I noticed that she was
whispering to Mr. Dale, the owner of the Cherry motel, who occupied the
chair next to hers. Whatever she was whispering, I knew it would be
something that shouldn't be heard. I was embarrassed at attracting so
much attention to myself during a meeting, but I got up, as quietly as
possible, and went to Mrs. Bradley. I told her, in a low voice, that I
had to leave now, and that I'd like for her to come with me.
She got up with alacrity, her dark skirts falling in heavy layers down
to her ankles. Just before stepping away from her chair she turned and
whispered loudly to Mr. Dale, "I didn't finish telling you about my
baby. It will be born any day now--and how, it will! You must come to
see it. But I have to go now and find out how it's getting along--you
see, I left it home in the oven!"
Mr. Dale was aghast.
I hustled Mrs. Bradley out, into the car, and back to the Auto Haven. I
knew that Mr. Cruz would finish taking the minutes of the meeting for
me, or arrange for someone else to do it. Getting the old lady away
from the public, with its cruel curiosity, was more important than
taking minutes, anyway. It was a warm night, and after I had seen Mrs.
Bradley to her door I drove back toward the Moonrise Motel. I decided
not to go back to the meeting; it was too nice out. The meeting would
be half over by the time I could get back, anyway, and my reappearance
would be anticlimactic.
I stuck my head in the door to tell Grant I had left the meeting early,
and that I was going to water the lawn now. Grant was reading, and
eating a graham cracker with sliced onion on it.
I was sprinkling the front island of grass when Grant came out and got
into the car, calling to me that since I was home anyway, he was going
to attend the last half of the meeting. I turned the nozzle of the hose
so that the water came out in a steady stream. I flopped the stream up
and down idly, trying to catch in it a reflection of the neon lights.
My mind drifted to an amusingly shocking window display I had seen at
the opening of a new butcher shop downtown. On the opening day crowds
had stood in front of the big window, gaping at the man inside who was
operating a big, complicated machine. Into one end of the machine, up a
little slanting ramp, walked small dogs--and out the opposite end of
the machine popped neat, tautly-stuffed sausages.
The exit for the little dogs, and the point where meat was fed into the
machine to be made into stuffed sausages, was concealed behind
draperies. A few of the less imaginative people in the crowd were
horrified and indignant.
Laughing over my recollection of the scene, I sat down on the edge of
the grass island, adjusting the nozzle again until the water came out
in a fine spray of mist.
All at once, I stopped laughing. I stood up gingerly. The back of my
skirt was soaked. The water from the hose, coming out in a solid
stream, had formed a huge puddle right in the spot where I had chosen
to sit.
Just then a car drove into the driveway, stopping in front of the
office, its merciless headlights on me.
I put the hose down and walked toward the car, keeping out of the beam
of the headlights. With one hand behind me, I wrung some of the water
out of my skirt, in what I hoped was an inconspicuous manner.
A very young, self-conscious couple sat in the car. They were too
absorbed in their own embarrassment to notice mine. I guessed instantly
that they were newlyweds.
The groom, a thin, blue-eyed fellow of about twenty, cleared his throat
and asked, "Have you got a--can you put up me and my wife for the
night?"
"I sure can. Would you like to take a look at the cabin?" In the glow
reflected from the neon signs, I could see him blushing.
"Naw, naw, it'll be all right."
He climbed out of the car, and if he hadn't been in such a fog of bliss
and confusion, would probably have wondered why I backed away from his
presence as though he were royalty. I preceded him, backward, into the
office, and ducked behind the desk.
When the young pair had gone to their cabin, I changed my dress. Going
out to turn off the hose, I saw the groom driving away, and the bride
standing in the doorway waving to him rather mournfully.
"Just one, now, remember," she called after him.
It was almost midnight when there came a timid tapping at our door.
Grant, who had just returned from the motel owners' meeting, was in the
bathroom getting ready for bed. I pulled my robe over my pajamas and
went to the door. It was the bride.
"My husband hasn't come back," she said hesitantly. "He went out for a
drink, to celebrate. I don't drink so I stayed home. I--I guess maybe
he had more drinks than he should have. We--we just got married, this
morning. I was just wondering--you haven't seen him anywhere around,
have you?"
I assured the tall, pretty girl that I hadn't seen her husband. Her
soft brown eyes filled with tears.
"He always drinks a little too much and then he can't find his way
around very well. I know that's what happened tonight--he had too many
drinks, and then he couldn't find his way back to me!"
The girl still stood there. "I wonder ..." she said uncertainly.
"Yes?"
"Well, I've always lived with my family, and I've never spent a night
alone in my life. I'm sure my husband just gave up looking for me, and
rented a cabin somewhere else. I wonder--would it be asking too much--I
mean, I'm really scared, back there alone. I looked outside the window
toward the mountains, and it's so black and uncivilized out there. I
even heard some wolves howling up there in the hills."
"Coyotes," I corrected.
"Well, that's almost as bad. Anyway, I'm not used to being alone at
night. I wonder if--well, if you'd let me sleep on the floor in here
with you tonight?"
When Grant came out of the bathroom I explained the situation to him,
and he set up the rollaway bed in our living room for the bride to
sleep on.
Toward morning I heard muffled sobbing, as she apparently held the
pillow against her face to avoid making too much noise. I stirred, and
she whispered, "Are you awake?"
When I whispered back that I was, she lost control of herself, and
began to sob audibly.
"For months," she wailed, "I've been dreaming about my wedding night,
imagining it, trying to picture how it would be, but--ooh!--I never
thought it would be like this!"
In the morning the wandering groom came back to claim his bride, and
the marriage probably got off to a good start in spite of that first
minor catastrophe.
To avoid any possibility of Jill's becoming a dull girl, I frequently
go shopping or visiting when things at the motel are well enough under
control for Grant to manage without me. I don't like the idea of going
places alone, but it's better than staying home night after night. When
I go shopping, though, I am very glad that Grant cannot be with me. He
seldom approves of the occasional frivolous purchases I make, and never
makes any attempt to conceal his opinion from salespersons, customers,
passersby, and whomever else it doesn't concern in the least. One time
when a new little curio shop opened in Banning, I browsed happily and
thoroughly through it, and finally selected a small item made of what
looked like beautiful, glossy petrified wood. It was shaped like an
hour glass, with mysterious strings and turrets. It was a bargain, I
thought, at three dollars.
Grant didn't see it that way, though. "But what's it for?" he demanded.
"What is it?"
I don't see how anyone with such a prosaic, practical nature can get
much joy out of life.
I couldn't figure out, myself, what the thing was for, though, so I set
it on top of the bookcase beside Mr. Hawkins' nude perfume atomizer.
"It's an ornament, of course," I told Grant haughtily.
Whenever I help out with cleaning the cabins, I have a faintly guilty
feeling about being in the cabins in which someone is staying over. The
presence of clothes and suitcases, the casual disarray of magazines and
cosmetics make me feel as though I am entering a private dwelling in
which I have no business to be. And I, like Mrs. Clark and Grant, have
often thought about the precarious position we would be in if any of
the stay-over guests should complain that possessions left in the cabin
while they were gone had disappeared. We are more fortunate than most
motel owners, in that we have a maid whose complete honesty is as
stanch and unassailable a fact as the existence of the Pyramids. If a
guest should tell us that something of his is missing, we never have to
deal with the nagging possibility that the maid might have stolen it.
Besides the many trivial things that have been left in the cabins,
there have been a few things of real value, including a wallet
containing six hundred dollars (which Mrs. Clark turned in to us the
instant she found it) and a silver fox coat. We are always glad, in one
sense, when such valuable things are left behind; the owners, when they
get them back, are so grateful and so impressed with our integrity that
they will probably patronize our motel loyally for years to come. The
woman who came feverishly back for the silver fox coat was so
overwhelmed with gratitude that she promised Grant a job, at whatever
time in the future he might need it, at her husband's sanitary belt
factory. So in case we ever go broke in the motel business. Grant will
be able to go right to work.
One of us accompanies the radio man--at his tactful insistence--when he
goes around to take the quarters out of the coin boxes in the radios.
It's a task that wastes time, but in a very enjoyable manner. He always
wears his shirtsleeves so high that the hinges tattooed on the insides
of his elbows are visible, and he talks continually. This time, as we
made the rounds of the cabins, he was telling me about a motel in Palm
Springs where he had installed some of his radios.
"Ya oughta see the way the dames run around, there in Palm Springs," he
said, busily taking the back off a radio. "They wear things they call
brassieres with their shorts, see, but it don't do no good. What you
can't see sure ain't worth lookin' for. An' most the guys runnin'
around in shorts, they're such fat slobs, they need brassieres worse'n
the women do. I been around a lot, see, but damned if it don't
embarrass me to go to Palm Springs!"
The wiry little man unlocked the coin box and extracted a handful of
quarters, dropping them into the cloth sack he carried for the purpose.
"At least, they've given up that silly 'sun time' they tried out a
while back. They tried to cheat people out of an extra hour, see, or
maybe they was tryin' to give 'em an extra hour, I never figured it
out, but anyway it didn't work, so they gave it up."
He pointed his finger at me abruptly, popping the knuckle of his thumb.
"Got ya!" he chortled, when I jumped.
He started fitting the back of the radio into its proper place again.
"There's a trailer camp right behind this Palm Springs motel, see, the
one where I've got my radios, an' it's full of all these ritzy guys and
dames, see. In the morning when they get up--an' that ain't early--you
oughta see 'em, lined up to go to the bathroom. They just stand there
an' talk, see, an' sometimes they get so interested in what they're
sayin', that they just keep on standin' there for a long time, talkin'
and talkin'."
The radio man got into his car to go, after all of the money had been
divided; I glanced at him, on my way back to the house, when he didn't
start up his car immediately.
He had a small can of oil in his hand, and, apparently assiduous and
intent, he was oiling the hinges in his elbows.